


Birth And Blessing

by sasha_b



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Gen, Humor, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-18 13:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21761464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: Vanora; woman, mother, partner, friend, chef, Briton.  Herself.
Relationships: Bors/Vanora (King Arthur 2004)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 12
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Birth And Blessing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pameluke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pameluke/gifts).



> Potential triggers for death and depression; mild mentions. I don't want to spoil the story, but just mentioning it in case of sensitivity.
> 
> Canonical character death.
> 
> All dialog from King Arthur written by its respective authors, and is reused here in italics.
> 
> Thank you to K for the preread and support!

**Ten.**

Vanora, age ten, was always loud. She was boisterous, and brave and busy and funny. She was _that_ girl, the one everyone’s parents told them to not be like, annoying, brash and showy and she could never quite understand why that bothered so many people in her village.

Badon was medium sized, and there were plenty of folks that were louder than she was, especially the Roman soldiers that seemed to crop up everywhere they were not wanted. They dressed in bright colors, stomped about with giant, hobnailed sandals, and spoke as though no one else in the world mattered.

Vanora would watch them parade through town, which was adjacent to the Roman fortress – Camboglanna, which was the strangest name she thought she’d ever heard – and barter and laugh and drink and buy things and eat, good gods, could they eat. She’d never seen anything like it.

“I’m going to take advantage of them,” she told her closest friend, a slight brunette called Ione. “Watch me.” She’d stood at the gate to her small home and watched as some of the soldiers passed, her basket of goods for dinner resting on her hip, Ione a few paces behind her, her dark hair swinging in its plait as she opened the gate so the two girls could enter the house. 

Ione sighed and tugged at Vanora’s own plait. “You say that every time we see them. Don’t you want a husband? A family? Why on earth would you want to do anything that had anything to do with them? They hate us. They hate our land. They hate everything we do and stand for. We’re just chattel to them.”

They both frowned as a group of soldiers continued on past the lane that lead to Vanora’s home, and one of the men turned his dark brown eyes on them and winked as they marched along, most of them concerned with what they were going to eat and drink that night, and didn’t see the two young Britons that had nothing to do with their current goals.

“No, thank you,” Vanora answered. “I’m going to enjoy my life, and I think I’ll enjoy it more getting what I can out of dumb men that we have no choice but to coexist with.” She nodded and turned to face the other girl. “Let’s get started on our own dinner. The more practice, the better.”

**Thirteen**

A fierce fire that swept through the village of Badon three years later made Vanora an orphan. Along with a few other children, and by happenstance she ended up allowing two of them to stay with her in her home, which had survived the disaster. She didn’t care; she really didn’t think she wanted children, and having these two around allowed her to pretend she had responsibilities and didn’t have the time to begin her search – without her mother – for a man of her own to help her with the traditional roles a woman was supposed to fill. She didn’t really care about that; however, it would be easier to run a home with some help. And as much as she didn’t care to admit it, having a man around would keep her and the two young children safer than they would be on their own.

She was at the winding river that ran next to the ugly monstrosity that the Romans called Hadrian’s Wall, or just _the Wall_ , washing her clothing and those of the two smaller children that were living with her. They had names, but they were so quiet and so overwhelmed by what had happened to them still that Vanora just called them “One,” and “Two,” as they seemed to answer to anything. She’d thought about “boy,” and “girl,” but that seemed unoriginal and they appeared to accept the numbers, so she just shrugged and kept on with her practice of mothering them.

She felt as though she was beginning to understand what mothering was about, although she also thought she was a bit too hard on them sometimes, and sometimes she didn’t really care what was going on either. But that was the way life was, and she was alone now, and her ways were the best ways she could come up with. She had no help; her parents were dead as was her friend Ione, and no one in the medium sized village of Badon seemed interested in taking in the loud redhead. There were days when she hated it, hated that she was impetuous and inquisitive and herself, and on those days she stayed in the house and didn’t do anything until One and Two dragged her outside to at least pluck the apples from the tree that still grew at the edge of the gate.

The river was quiet and she liked it, even though she could hear and sometimes see the Romans drilling and talking at their barracks, and she was close enough to the small cemetery they’d set up to sometimes see men being buried, and sometimes see knights and legionaries weeping or drinking over the graves of the newly dead. That made her feel a way she didn’t like, and on those days she wrapped up her laundry as quickly as possible and went home to One and Two.

Today there didn’t seem to be anyone about, although she could hear snippets of ugly Latin mixed with British being spoken. She could also hear some of the language the boys that made up the contingent of conscripted knights spoke, most likely a few different Sarmatian dialects – there seemed to be a few of them on the other side of the river, mostly hidden by trees and a ring of wood where they practiced with their weapons.

Some of the knights she’d catch glimpses of as they were sparring; they were young, almost as young as she was, and she’d heard the story of how they’d been forced to come here and fight for a country and an empire not their own, and she thought that was almost the most terrible thing she’d ever heard. But knowing the Romans and their tactics, she wasn’t surprised. She was still absolutely convinced she could use that to her advantage – she’d begun cooking for a few of the men she’d seen regularly over the years, and they dropped a few coins into her palm when she delivered the food, which they seemed to be extremely enamored by. She had a few thoughts regarding their reactions to her food, but no grand ideas had emerged yet. 

She would think of something.

The sun was close to setting when she finished her wash, and she folded everything as neatly as she cared to into her basket and straightened up, wiping a hand over her forehead, her hair straggling every which way which made her grumble under her breath as she made her way up the incline toward the Wall. The leaves under her boots crunched loudly and she was staring almost totally upward at her hair, so she didn’t see the body she crashed into until it was way too late and the smell of sweaty boy had overwhelmed her, forcing her to drop her basket in surprise.

“Futete!”

The curse was one of her favorites, and since her parents weren’t around to tell her to stop saying it, she used it whenever she found it appropriate. She glared at the boy she’d run into, obviously one of the knights and a terribly thin and tall one at that.

“Watch what you’re doing, knight,” she punctuated his title with drawn out sarcasm, but he said nothing, just standing there, staring at her like he’d never seen a woman before. She cursed again, this time under her breath, and she bent to the task of picking up her now leaf strewn laundry.

“Dag!”

She looked up from her laundry gathering as another boy came tumbling through the leaves and trees. He was much broader than the one she’d just run into, and apparently as impetuous and loud as the other one seemed to not be. 

The new boy stopped and stared at her picking up her clothing as well, and as she finished stacking everything into her basket – she’d pick the leaves off of the fabric later – she put her hands on her hips and pulled the face she often used on One and Two when she wanted something. “You two are awfully good at staring. How are you still alive? Don’t you need to be good at actually doing things to be a knight?” She humphed and lifted her clothing. They both gawped, but the bigger one opened his mouth finally.

“My lady,” he said grandly, stepping forward. “My hearty apologies. My colleague and I are merely taken aback by your beauty and grace.” He smiled, and while his eyes did crinkle admiringly at the corners, Vanora shoved by him and gained the trees that surrounded the Wall. The sun was setting quickly and she needed to get back to her little – albeit fake – family.

“Fuck off,” she said crudely, and the boys both flushed at her baldness, although the loud one cracked a huge grin. “You could’ve helped me – ya didn’t – now leave me alone, gentlemen,” she cocked an eyebrow and gingerly stepped over the Wall with her laundry, the two young knights following at a brisk pace. The bigger one drew even with her and stood in her way as she reached the path back to Badon. 

“Apologies, lady,” he said, his tone this time real. He wasn’t much taller than she was, had dark blond hair, and a broad chest that spoke to his time practicing the craft that made these young boys valuable to Rome. She felt a bitter twist in her stomach; no matter how annoying they were, she was sorry for the “knights,” and sorry for the way they’d been brought here.

“Let me help you,” he added, sincerely and with a smile. He pushed the sweaty shock of blond hair out of his face, and reached for her basket. “I’m Bors. That silent but deadly type behind me is Dagonet,” he added. The tall, skinny one nodded wordlessly at her, and although she pursed her lips, she allowed the one called Bors to take her clothing from her.

“To make up for your rude behavior,” she answered. “Nothing more.” She pulled at her plait and let it drop around her shoulder, the red hair glinting in the last of the sunlight. “I live just up this way. With my father. And very large brother,” she added, not wanting them to know they could easily take advantage of her. The tall silent one – Dag, the shorter one had called him – followed at a pace and they arrived at her small but neatly kept home rather quickly, small talk filling the air as they walked. She also found she was a bit sorry it had been so fast when Bors handed her the basket of clothing back.

No matter that both of them were annoying. And she didn’t need any more friends. Or any friends. She nodded at them both in thanks, and when Two suddenly appeared at her shoulder, she handed the young orphan the clothing and told him to take it inside. He scampered off with it, pausing only to toss a look of curiosity at the knights that were with Vanora.

“When did your parents die?

She looked at the tall one, who up until this point hadn’t said a word. Bors smacked him on the back and muttered something to him in their language, but she met Dagonet’s eyes and crossed her arms. “I told you,” she started, but broke off in midsentence. There were still blackened bits on the outside of the house, and anyone who had lived in the vicinity of Badon had to know about the fire. She shivered as the last of the sun set, and slowly firelight began to twinkle from windows and fire pits around the medium sized village.

“A year ago,” she said finally.

The tall one nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice deep for one so young.

Bors was looking from her to his fellow knight, an expression of consternation crossing his handsome features. She looked at him, and in a moment of – stupidity? Loneliness? – spoke.

“You two can come sometime and sample the food I’m making for the legion, if you want. The Romans are dumb; they want money and food and battles, and most of the time, they want food the most out of those three. I’m going to take them for whatever I can. But I need practice, and opinions. In two days,” she commanded. “Come for supper.”

Bors smiled, and she thought for a fleeting moment Ione would have been proud of her for her show of kindness – and humanity. The boys here were as alone as she was, and why not? She could slit their throats with the knife she kept under her pillow if she felt it necessary, and if not, well, it couldn’t hurt to have some soldiers around to help. 

Or some other young people to talk to.

She dipped a little curtsey to them both – although more to the quiet one than to the one she was rapidly realizing she was similar to more than she cared to admit – and then looked the one called Bors in the eyes for a long moment. _Was_ he like her? 

They were both alone in a wild country and doing things most likely neither of them wanted to do. Even if he wasn’t like her, she could use a – 

She spat to the side in annoyance, and he laughed. “My lady,” he sketched a lovely bow, and the interest in his gaze was something she hadn’t expected from this one. “We wouldn’t miss it. Anything to take advantage of Romans.” He winked garrulously and she rolled her eyes.

She watched them walk away, leaning on the fence, and wondered at her stupidity in inviting basic strangers – conscripted knights, no less – into her home and her life that was just fine the way it was. She shook her head, and when One called her inside, she did as the little girl bade and went in.

**Sixteen**

The winter brought sickness, and this winter it came like a storm.

Vanora had taken control of the garrison tavern three months previous, and the moment she had set foot in the run down kitchen, she knew this was the place she was meant to be. The way for her to take permanent advantage of the Romans and the legionaries that lived at Camboglanna, and she was in the process of restoring and refitting the stoves and brickwork when the sickness came.

She was bent over at the oven, sweat pouring from her brow, her skirts and apron tied up between her legs – an utter stupid travesty that women didn’t typically wear _braccae_ \- when an unexpected hand touched her back. She shrieked, a sound that would make a banshee proud, and jerked around, cooking knife in her hand.

Dagonet stood behind her, a slight flush creeping up his neck. Dag was stoic and silent and Vanora wanted to punch him sometimes for not talking, but the knight was who he was, and he and Bors balanced each other appropriately. And Dag was still shy around her, and why in the fuck was he here? He was Bors’ shadow, and especially since Vanora and Bors had started…something, Dag was never around her by herself.

“Gods, Dagonet, you almost got your throat slit.” She shoved her hair off her face again and set the knife down on the table next to her. The bread she’d just slid in to be baked was settled, and she moved away from the oven and the extreme heat, allowing some of the cold air of the open courtyard to dry her sweat. “What’s wrong?” 

His eyes met hers, and she swallowed. 

“Arthur’s asking for you,” he said. “To the _valetudinarium._ ”

_Shit._

“What’s wrong, Dag?”

“Just come. Please.”

He held out his hand, and she swallowed heavily again.

*

When they arrived at the small building, Vanora already knew what was happening, although she couldn’t imagine why Arthur would have asked for her. Maybe her experience with raising children – she had four orphans living with her now – children were always getting sick, and there were a few things she knew.

The snow was coming down now, and Dagonet made sure she didn’t slip as she crossed the garrison courtyard. When they pushed the doors to the hospital open, the smell of illness made her reel backward, and Dagonet caught her against his chest, gently. He was a good man, she thought dizzily, and steeled herself for whatever it was Arthur wanted.

Dag led her to the corner of the dim room, where Arthur and oddly, Lancelot were seated next to a bed. The younger knight looked up when she approached with Dagonet, who nodded at Lancelot and spoke in their language to him. Vanora wasn’t fluent, but she knew enough to understand some – Lancelot stood and crossed to her, leaving Arthur where he was sat.

“This is a lot to ask,” Lancelot said. He laid his hand on her arm, and she took note he was extremely warm. Come to think of it, his face was flushed, too, and he was sweating even though it was freezing outside, and this was an old drafty building. “Can you help?” His gaze was somewhat wild, and he suppressed a shudder as she opened her mouth to ask where Bors was, and what in all holy hell was going on.

She shut her mouth as she looked over Lancelot’s shoulder, and cursed under her breath at the sight of Galahad, wrapped up from head to foot in blankets, face sunken and bone blanched, sweat on his forehead and cheeks as well. The wind howled, a beast that meant _winter_ , and she pinched her mouth as she turned to Lancelot again.

“You should be in bed, yourself.” He shook his head. “Bors is out with Tristan, looking for some damn herb or thing that Tristan thought might help. Dag suggested we ask you.”

“Why, because I’m a woman?? Lancelot, I’m a cook. I’m not a healer. Haven’t you asked the medicus?” She didn’t mean to sound frustrated, but to be snatched from her warm environs where she was familiar and brought to a place of sickness and fear with no warning made her insides feel as though they’d turned to water. She followed Lancelot, though, as he turned and made his way to the bed, where Arthur was waiting for them, a look of insane hope on his stubbled face. 

He was so young, she suddenly realized. They all were. Her included.

“Arthur,” she greeted the commander of the Sarmatians. He smiled at her, although it didn’t reach his green eyes, and took her hand. “I’m sorry to bother you, Vanora, but I thought,” he hesitated, and then trailed off. She summoned a look of solidness for him, and touched his cheek. “I’ll do what I can. What is Tristan out looking for?”

Arthur filled her in, and as they talked, she was thinking desperately of any and all things she’d ever used when one of her adoptees was ill. Galahad twisted and moaned in his mummy-like wrappings, and Lancelot was starting to look worse as the knight stood next to Dag, staring down at their comrade.

“I think Tristan has the right idea,” she told Arthur, “but Dag,” she added, motioning at him. “Go back to the kitchen and bring back the soup I have there, and the bread that I’m hoping is ready. And some towels, and – ” she gave him a list of some of the herbs she cooked with that had some medicinal properties, and he nodded, his eyes shining with something she wanted to smack out of his face. She was a cook! Not a healer! Gods help her.

She looked around at the men gathered over their sick brother, and felt a surge of something that was akin to pity, but also something she’d been trying to ignore lately as well – she loved them. She loved these men, and their commander, and their piteously small band of conscripts that had no choice to be where they were.

She loved Arthur, for his passion and care for his knights. He was a good man, despite being Roman. She loved maddening, beautiful and deadly Lancelot. 

She loved Dagonet, despite his impassiveness and quiet, and she loved Bors despite his annoyance and flagrant disregard of societal norms and his horrid, awful jokes and his intensity and his rudeness, and _futete_ , did she love Bors?

“Not now, Vanora,” she sing-songed to herself, ignoring the strange look Arthur gave her.

“Lancelot, get in that bed,” she commanded, her tone better than Arthur’s _that’s an order_ tone. “Look,” she added more loudly, trying to draw attention away from her own insecurities with, “here’s Dag with the soup and herbs.”

She took the things from him, and bustled about, hiding her fear and worry and absolute certainty she had no gods blessed idea what she was going to do if any of them got any sicker.

**Nineteen**

Bors snored like a pig.

Vanora sighed and rolled over; the knight was her lover, and a good one, and he was a good man, too, but for the gods’ own sake, did he have to be such a … man?

She had to be getting back to her home. There were six of them, now, six orphans and despite One being old enough to care for the younger ones, Vanora still got nervous leaving them alone too long.

Also, there was something she was more afraid of than that – and she needed to tell Bors, but the damn man wouldn’t _wake,_ and wouldn’t stop snoring. She shook her head, and jabbed him in the guts with a sharp elbow.

He snorted – snorted! – and cracked an eye open. “Woman,” he said, his voice rusted and rough with lack of use, “you’d best be telling me the garrison is on fire, or you want me again, because I have to patrol this coming morning, and I need sleep.”

“Man,” she answered, turning to face him and resting her hand on her hip, “you’d best be telling _me_ you love me and you’re going to stop snoring, otherwise your balls will be tucked inside your saddlebags and Dag will have to tell the others why you were bested by a local. And a woman, at that.”

She sat up and he scrubbed a hand over his face, the grin that her comment elicited one of the best things about him. He was crazy. And square and strong and she did love him, despite his heavy drinking, his eating of everything in sight, and his ease at leaving her alone the moment Dag or Arthur called for him. But she was independent still, despite her attraction and somewhat annoyed adoration of him and their closeness. He was kind. And loving of her, and he loved the orphans she took in. He was a good knight, and a good soldier, and gods, what the hell would she do if she lost him? Especially now.

“Bors,” she started, and turned to face him, her hair all akimbo around her face and making her neck sweat. She tugged at it, twisted it into a knot, and shoved it on top of her head. The night was almost over, and she knew he was exhausted as all the knights were, and she knew the summer season meant more raids from Woads, and she knew he needed rest and she felt guilty, but this was important, and he was staring at her like she was crazy and that made her cranky.

“Don’t give me that expression,” she spat out, and then sighed as he raised a hand and touched her breast, flicking her nipple slowly, experimentally. He cupped her flesh in his warm hand and she responded despite herself, and she leaned over and kissed him, pulling away just as he was starting to get into it. She had to talk to him, not fuck him _again_ as they’d already done twice this even.

“No,” she put a hand between them, pushing on his chest. “I need to tell you something,” she said, her voice lowered. They were in the knights’ barracks, and granted, they each had their own small area to sleep and do whatever they wanted in private, but Vanora knew that anyone could hear them should they put a mind to it.

“You’re going to marry me?”

“Gods, no,” she retorted immediately. “Listen to me. Be serious for once.”

He rubbed his face again, and yawning, sat up. The dawn was close; the sun was kissing the horizon and they could both feel it. She wanted to hurry up, but this required some finesse and she didn’t want to do it wrong or make him feel strange. Or obligated. Or angry.

If he was angry, well then, fuck him. This was just as much his responsibility as hers. And damn it, but _fuck him_ was just what caused this in the first place.

“What, my love?” he asked, his yawn splitting his face. “Out with it. Otherwise I’ll have to spank you till you talk,” he added, popping his left eyebrow up and down. She groaned and put her hand over his forehead. “You’re not Lancelot, no matter how hard you try.”  
He huffed at that and opened his mouth to speak, but she shushed him and slipped her hand from his hairline to his lips and covered them.

No time like the present.

“Bors, I’m – ”

“Get up, you great oaf!!”

A pounding at the door stopped the words she’d been trying to say for a few days now, and she cursed and got out of the bed, wrapped a fur around her naked body, and threw the door open. The aforementioned Lancelot stood there, kitted out and armed, and his eyebrows rose expertly at the sight of her, tousled and covered by Bors’ bed trappings, fire in her gaze, her hair falling from its precarious bun. 

“My,” he said, his salacious tone one she’d heard too many times from him – the girls that worked in her tavern complained endlessly about him, although she knew they secretly loved it and him – “now this is a wake up call.”

Bors was suddenly standing shoulder to shoulder with her, his bare body solid and warm next to hers at the door. He frowned deeply at Lancelot even as the other knight made a face that looked like he was ready to puke. 

“Let me catch you looking at my woman once more, boyo, and you’ll think wake up call.” Bors stepped forward, unashamed of his nakedness, and Lancelot shoved him backwards inside the room. Vanora turned to give him a look; she had a bad feeling the two men would be at each other’s throats shortly, and she wanted to stop anything before it started. 

“For fuck’s sake, Bors,” Lancelot snarled, even as he was still raking Vanora with his dark eyes. “You can’t even catch me, much less beat me. Arthur wants us. Get dressed.” He met Vanora’s gaze, and pursed his lips. “Sorry, my lovely.” He picked up her hand and pressed it lightly to his lips, but let go as Bors growled and tried to rush him again, only to hit his head on the door as Lancelot shut it between them.

“Get dressed, you fool! Good morning, lady. Apologies for the interruption,” the other knight’s voice floated through the chinks in the wood as he most surely sauntered down the hall.

Bors was grumbling to himself as he dressed, tugging his _braccae_ so hard he split the seam over his left thigh. Sighing, Vanora used a bit of gauze she found in the corner to keep them together, telling him to _stop being an idiot_ as she did so.

He tore the door open once he was kitted out, as if he expected Lancelot to still be there. “It’s fine,” she said as they made their way down the hall and into the courtyard, where most of the other knights were gathering as they waited for Arthur to join them. It was hot already, and Vanora shoved fingers in her hair and pushed it away from her sweaty forehead. She felt her stomach roll all of a sudden, and had to clamp her lips together in order to keep from getting sick. Fuck. When was she going to tell him?

She waited as Arthur showed up and spoke to the gathered men, giving them their orders, and quickly they dispersed and headed for the stables, obviously sent out on some sort of mission. Bors kissed her forehead quickly in apology, then her cheek and lips, and she allowed herself to fall into him a bit, feeling weak and worried.

He pulled away and met her eyes, narrowing his gaze with slight unease. The other knights were beginning to ride past them, and Bors was antsy to leave even as she tried to cling to him. “Vanora, girl,” he said even as she held his hand. “You alright, love?”

He kissed her palm and let go, watching the other men ride out even as she tried to summon the words she needed as fast as she could before he too mounted up.

The sun rose and blasted the courtyard with light and heat and the garrison seemed to spring to life, horses and knights and legionaries and servants and squires and chickens and goats and men with weapons and every other possible thing that lived in a fortress making as much noise as possible and she smiled tightly and nodded.

“Aye, my man. Go on.”

He kissed her once more for good measure and pinched her right buttock as she turned away. She tutted at him but laughed and blew him a kiss for good measure as he ran for the stables. She stayed where she was and watched him as he rode past a few moments later, waving at her as she followed him with her eyes until she couldn’t see him or any of the other knights for the dust from their mount’s hooves.

She bit her lip and crossed her arms over her aching, swollen breasts.

“I’m pregnant,” she said to the space that had been filled with knights only a few minutes previously.

**Twenty Two**

Vanora stood at the edge of the woods closest to the knight’s little cemetery. The men were finishing burying Tor, and on the surface she didn’t want to interrupt, but inside, she didn’t want to put herself through another funeral.

She’d buried two babies in the past two years, and that was enough to almost kill her.

The eight orphans that were living with her – and Bors, if you really wanted to call a spade a spade – were her rocks, and she loved them, but it was different when the child was your blood. She hated to even think that, was ashamed of it, but as far as she could imagine, it was true. She loved her extended, wild family, as did Bors, who was rather fond of one of the boys, Gilly. But your own child…she could only imagine. And she felt horrid for it.

She jerked out of her reverie when someone spoke her name.

“Arthur,” she answered, and tried to smile at him. The snow was going to come soon; the sky was fat with clouds and ominously grey, and she snuggled her cloak more tightly around her shoulders as Arthur approached her.

He looked terrible, really. His skin was as grey as the sky, and his eyes were sunken and dim. She wasn’t used to seeing him look this exhausted, and it worried her. She reached out a hand and brushed a single forlorn leaf off of his shoulder, and his eyes followed her hand jerkily. He was slumped and too thin and she twisted her mouth.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said, “but I thought we could gather at the tavern this evening, for a dinner and a drink – or a few,” he smiled humorlessly, “for Tor. If that’s alright. I wanted to warn you ahead of time.”

The wind picked up and blew her hair around her face, and his red cloak whipped at his legs, a bird trapped, trying to escape the cage it found itself in.

“No need to warn me,” she touched his arm again. “You lot are welcome anytime. Especially this time.” _No matter that I can’t help but think of my own loss._

She didn’t know if it was her, or Bors. He had been a one woman man for a long time now, which she still found hilarious based on _him_ and his personality, but – she’d never had another man, either. She might never know why they weren’t successful at conceiving, and it tugged at her stomach and made her insides twist with sorrow. Death was inevitable, but for the gods’ own sake, did it have to make so many visits to just her? And to these men, who had enough pain all the time?

Arthur nodded at her and added that wan smile again, and she wanted to either hug or punch it off his face. Men. Arthur took too much responsibility for a lot of things; even her Bors said as much and despite the lack of talking from Dag – she was going to worm his life story out of him one of these days – he agreed with that assessment.

He shoved hair out of his face and turned to head back to the cemetery, where the funeral was wrapping up and where she could see Bors and Dagonet pouring out an urn of wine onto the freshly piled earth. The grave held Tor’s sword and helmet, like most of the rest of the mounds. She wondered if Bors would deign to give up his axe should he die.

That thought made her shudder more than the wind did – as annoying and loud as he was, she loved him and needed his company, especially since the deaths of the two babies who had only taken one or two breaths in this world before being snatched by Arawn and carried to the underworld. She prayed they were happy with all the other children that had gone too early.

“Bring as many men as you can, Arthur,” she called out, and he nodded again as he made his way back to the fortress. 

“We need them,” she added to herself. “And they need it, too.”

**Twenty Five**

The men had three more years on their indenture.

Summer was high upon them, and Vanora wiped her face for the hundredth time as she shoved the last of the bread into the oven. The men of the fortress, and not too few of the women, came and drank and ate and caroused after a long hot day, and she knew she’d be foolish to not be ready for the crowd.

She heard a clashing and stomping, and then a child’s angry cry. She turned to watch Gilly, her number Seven, take a punch from her Five, and she threw up her hands and marched outside to where the children were scuffling. Gilly’s nose had begun to bleed, and she was just about to open her mouth and scold the both of them when the pounding of horse hooves caught her attention, and distracted the children from their hitting of one another. She still grabbed them both up in her hands, their floppy tunics the perfect hand holds for her. 

“Hold still, you horrid things,” she shook her head at them. “Unless you’d like your father and his friends to run you over with their mounts?” The children weren’t afraid of Bors or any of the knights; she knew the threat was empty, but still. The knights were usually exhausted and distracted when they returned from a patrol or a mission, and she was slightly afraid they _would_ run over the young ones just by accident.

“Mother,” Gilly whined, “we want to see the horses! Ow!” he slapped at Five, who’d punched him again as Vanora watched the men ride in, although she hadn’t lost her grip on the scuffling children. She shook them both and turned them to face her.

“You can see the horses when you’re finished helping me sweep this courtyard,” she said, and crouched so she was closer to them. “Or you can see the horses as you muck out their stalls. Your choice. And stop hitting each other,” she added. “You can fight on your own time. Not mine.” She shook her head, and raised her eyes to the heavens as Bors rode past, laughing at something Gawain was saying, waving to him as he blew her a kiss. “You two will be the death of me.” 

She let go of them and ruffled their hair with one last _behave or else_ before dusting her hands in her skirts. She told her newest girl, a redhead by the name of Hazel - _Lancelot needs to leave this one alone_ \- to keep an eye on the children and that they had been instructed to sweep. She wiped the sweat off her forehead again and made her way toward the stables, looking for Bors to find out how this latest mission had gone.

She found Dag first.

The tall knight was carrying his axe and his saddlebags and smiled at her as she almost ran headlong into him, the barrels that were stacked at the edge of the tanner’s building blocking her view of the alley that ran between the brick structures. The sun was close to setting and she was still sweating and knew she looked a mess, but it was just Dag, and really, he was like a family member. He _was_ a family member. She shaded her eyes with her hand and crooked a small grin at him.

“I’m glad to see you in one piece, brother,” she told him. “Are you alright?”

He tucked a piece of flyaway hair behind her ear and nodded. “As always, lady,” he answered. His voice was low and musical and Vanora felt a small tug in her guts – Dagonet was a kind and generous and quiet and dangerous and extremely trustworthy person, and a supremely skilled knight. He was also handsome and sweet and even after knowing him all these years, and even after loving Bors all these years, Dag was charming. He didn’t know it, and he’d be mortified if Vanora had ever mentioned she thought he was a catch, but still she thought it, and like any handsome man that was a kind soul, he had a slight affect on her. And on many of the women in the fortress as well, but apart from the random turn in the hay, she didn’t think he’d ever partner with anyone. 

There was something there that made him unapproachable, and even Vanora hadn’t quite breached him yet. After twelve years, she didn’t think she ever would, which was a shame. She would always try, though. And she would always love him in her way, because what you saw was what you got, with him. And he loved her man, and her crazy family, and that was more than enough to endear him to her.

He looked tired but still took the time to tell her a small story about Bors almost falling off his mount as they rode the eastern side of the Wall, and laughed with her when she told him about catching Five and Gilly trying to take each other out. That afternoon had not been the first of those instances, and she cocked her head as she suddenly thought of something. And it might give her another way to get into Dagonet’s head.

“I have an idea,” she winked up at him, and raised her hands in supplication when he gave her a dubious look. He was wilting in the heat, the same as she was, and she knew Bors would be shouting for her at any minute, so she wanted to make this fast, and to not give him a chance to say no.

“What if I send Five to you for training? To fight proper,” she added as he frowned. “Bors can handle Gilly, and I know he wants to. She needs someone with patience,” she sighed, remembering her own childhood. “And she needs more attention than I can give her. Will you help me, brother?” She knew calling him that was a cheap blow, but she also knew Dag loved her extended family as much as she and Bors did, and would enjoy helping the girl that was as quiet as he was. Even if he didn’t quite know it, yet.

“Are you sure she’d want that?” he asked her, his soft voice barely audible over the sounds of Bors and Gawain rounding the corner carrying their own tack and weapons.

“My woman!”

Vanora pursed her lips in mock annoyance at Bors’ volume; Dagonet seemed to be still mulling over what she’d asked. She turned to Bors and took up his arm. “Don’t you think Dag would be the perfect person to teach our Five how to fight right? She could use the help, and I know you want to see to Gilly yourself,” she elbowed him as she told him, turning away from Dag for a moment, cutting her eyes to him as she tried to mentally get Bors to understand he was to say yes.

The men were dirty and smelly and wanted nothing but to clean up before having a proper dinner and drink. Vanora knew this, and knew Bors would do anything she asked; Dag most likely as well, but when Bors stumbled over his answer, she looked at Gawain and raised her eyebrows. 

“Bors,” the blond said, shouldering his pack more comfortably as the other men rounded the corner as well, a wall of noise coming with them, “do what the lady says. And Dagonet, you’d best do what the lady says as well,” he added. “And to be honest, I’m too tired to argue with you. See you all tonight,” he tossed over his shoulder and waited for Galahad to catch up with him. Clapping the other knight on the shoulders, Gawain continued on toward the knight’s quarters even as Bors was nodding enthusiastically.

“Dag! That _is_ a fantastic idea. I knew I loved you for a reason, my firey lady,” he kissed her soundly as she tried to squirm away from his sweat and dirt. Oh well, it was all over all of them today. She looked at Dagonet, a smile tucked into the corners of her mouth, and he just nodded. “For you,” he answered. “I’ll do it. Send her to me tomorrow,” he looked away from her and Bors as Arthur came around the corner last, Lancelot with him. The dark haired knight was gesticulating and shouting and Dag stepped toward them, his murmured _see you tonight_ almost lost in the sound of Lancelot’s ill-timed racket.

They passed by and Vanora grabbed Bors by the shoulders and kissed him thoroughly, ignoring the smell and mess and he laughed as he pulled back from her. “And that was for?” he took up her arm and they followed the other knights toward the barracks. She knew she’d be in there with him for a while, and wasn’t worried even as they passed the tavern and kitchens and the grumbling children that were being watched by a stern Hazel. 

“Just for you,” she answered, and touched the tip of his grimy nose briefly. He kissed her fingertips and pinched her bum, and she walked with him to his quarters, remembering to thank Mithras – although not her god, an important one, nonetheless – that he had arrived back to the garrison safe and whole. She touched her stomach as they crossed the threshold of the knight’s area, wondering for a tiny moment if she would be able to stay away from the cemetery this year, if not just for knight’s funerals.

**Twenty Seven and a Half**

Vanora’s huge stomach had started to get in the way about a month ago, and now? She was past her time by a few days, and not only was she annoyed by the girth and heat and sheer exhaustion she felt, but worried as well. 

She didn’t want to feel anything other than joy at the fact that she’d carried this one almost to term – beyond it, actually – but she was tired and hot all the time despite the winter weather and by the gods, but was this going to really happen? Was she going to have her own baby? She winced at the thought that the children, her brood, weren’t like this one would be. She knew that wasn’t the case, but still. She’d been thinking that as long as she’d had Bors in her life and things hadn’t worked out the way she’d wanted them to, and she hated herself for it.

She was crossing the courtyard, smoke from the kitchens turning the air white with miniature clouds and smelling up the air with the scent of yeast and garlic. 

Some of the knights were out patrolling, including Bors today, which this close to her due date made her nervous when he wasn’t here. Arthur knew this, and kindly tried not to send him out as much as the others, but she’d told the commander not to show him any favors and she understood what he had to do. She was still worried, though, and wasn’t paying attention to her surroundings when she rounded the door of stables and entered, thinking to stop and put her feet up with the animals, their sounds and the leather tack and random bits of armor strewn about reminding her of Bors and her home and what meant everything to her.

It was almost fifteen years, too, and that was a miracle and she was terrified of it. It meant so much change, and that made her guts twist with thought.

The men had almost reached the end of their contract – servitude – with Rome, and she knew at least that Bors wanted to stay here, hoping to keep Dagonet with him. She was a local girl, born and bred, and while she’d go with Bors if he wanted to return to his clan in Sarmatia, all children in tow, in her heart of hearts she wanted to continue building a new life for all of them here. Without the influence of Rome, or battle, or Arthur, gods love him. He was a good man, and Bors and the others had had two horrid awful little piss ant rats of men as commanders before Arthur, and they were lucky with him. But Arthur wanted to go home, same as most of the others, and home for him was not here.

There were common sounds in the lofty building, and she sighed heavily as she sat on a hay bale, watching Arthur and Lancelot’s horses, next to each other in their stalls, and she leaned back against the wooden wall and let the ambiance and feel of the place lull her into a sense of calm and quietude. That was a change from the norm. She didn’t have down time. She certainly wouldn’t once this baby was born, which _futete_ she hoped would be soon. 

She had a successful business, employees of her own, and her eyes prickled unexpectedly at the thought of how much was different now. She patted her belly, and knew that she was her own woman, with a huge brood of people dependent upon her, and she could still stand up and say that she had done what she’d wanted to do even way back before the fire that had taken her family and her friends. 

“Damned child,” she murmured softly, stroking the rise of her stomach. “Don’t go making me soppy. I am happy. I _am_.” She was. She missed her parents even yet, though, and she wondered what Ione, her old childhood friend, would think of her taking the kitchens in the garrison for herself, finding a man in the end, and living as she always had, doing what she needed to in order to survive. _Was_ she truly happy, though?

Vanora was not a weak willed person. She had always been boisterous and daring, and funny and bold. And yet some days she still hated that created personality. What would it be like to be quiet, or alone again? What would it be like to live somewhere she’d never been, or away from the Romans and their horrid, messy, loud army and the men they’d conscripted to them? Would that be better?

And was she awful for wondering?

She knew she wasn’t. And no matter what, she was going to have this chance to have this baby, and she’d decided she’d wanted that since she lost the first two.

She loved Bors, and Dag, and Arthur and the rest of the men and she loved her bastards and all the havoc and stir they created. And she was fucking tired _all_ of the time, and never alone and she wiped under her eyes and cradled her stomach with her free hand.

A cramp passed through her belly; this had been happening for a day or two now, and despite being past her time, this was a good sign. Distracted by the slight pain, she breathed softly, reminding herself to find the midwife as soon as she could get up and let her know it was a few days later than the day they’d thought, and she might need to do something about that. Closing her eyes, she starting making mental lists of everything she’d need the children to gather for her, and also remembered that Five’s birthday was soon, and maybe Dagonet could help find a nice…

She jerked awake, a strange sound making her eyes open, and she stood heavily, the cramps coming again. Holding her belly with her hand, she made her way more deeply into the stables, motes of dust floating in the chilled air – winter was coming, for sure – and the – what was that sound?

She rounded the corner near the edge of the practice ring and had to slap a hand over her mouth at the sight that greeted her.

She knew it. She knew it!

Just as she was trying to back away from the intertwined forms of Arthur and Lancelot – she knew it!! – another cramp ripped through her, this one much greater than before, and she felt a strange sensation in her womb, and 

“Oh, shit,” she said, and her knees wouldn’t hold her anymore, and both Arthur and his lieutenant were there suddenly, the two of them half dressed, shouting her name, as she crumpled to the ground, her water breaking and gushing down her legs, pain coming in waves and she met Lancelot’s concerned gaze, laughing to think she’d seen his arse now, and another cramp and _oh my goddess help where is Bors here comes this baby_

**Twenty Eight**

The baby, Colin, was fussy, and Vanora was trying to work and serve the Romans as well as the knights that were celebrating their final mission, the success of delivering the bishop to the garrison an event that had them all drinking and yelling and throwing knives and generally making fools of themselves. She watched Tristan and Gawain toss dagger after dagger, Tristan always winning, and she shook her head at Lancelot, who was dangerously gambling with legionaries that had wanted to kill the fey looking knight since day one. 

Dagonet wasn’t in the tavern, and she watched Bors as he held Colin – the boy had a name, chosen by the other children, and that was a miracle in and of itself – and frowned prettily at Lancelot as the lieutenant snatched at her belt and wrestled her down onto his lap.

_When are you going to leave Bors and come home with me?_

She smacked his face lightly, and he laughed. _My lover is watching you._

Lancelot’s lover was most likely watching him, as well, but she couldn’t see Arthur anywhere, and had no idea how he’d be feeling – fifteen years, the end of the line, and she cocked an eyebrow as she noticed Bors holding the baby out at arm’s length, staring first at Lancelot, then at Colin, then at Lancelot again.

 _You look nothing like him. You’re all Bors._

She laughed and tilted her head back to the sky, the blackness beautiful and twinkling.

She raised her hands in supplication at the soldiers that all shouted for more ale, and retreated to the bar, where she held out her hands to the man she’d hired to make the drinks. 

_Oh, they want more._

Bors was jumping baby Colin up and down, and he started to cry.

_Here, be a mother to your son._

She took the baby in her arms and kissed him on the forehead, even as the man at the bar pushed the drinks at her. 

Dagonet appeared, a ghost as he always was, and slipped between she and Bors at the bar. Bors grinned and slapped the other knight on the shoulder. 

_Dagonet, where you been? We got plans to make._

Dag drained his mug as Bors suddenly touched at Vanora. His face was shining and happy and she didn’t think she’d ever seen a look like that cross his craggy expression. Save maybe when Colin had been born, safe, and she safe with him.

_Here, please. Sing._

She shook her head, arguing, pulling against him as he dragged her out into the courtyard, strong despite his tipsiness. _No! I’m trying to work_.

Bors pulled her to the middle of the courtyard with the baby in hand, and shouted _shut up! Vanora will sing_ , even against her protests. The rest of the men and women in the courtyard yelled encouragements as well, Galahad piping up with _sing about home!_ and then she knew just what to sing.

It was a song her mother had taught her, one she’d heard the women in the fortress singing, one she’d heard Lancelot in a rather clear, pleasant voice singing one morning what seemed like a thousand years ago as she’d done her laundry by the old practice ring the knights had used.

And although she was technically home, the words called to her and spun her and twisted her stomach in knots while she watched the knights’ expressions as she used one of the gifts her friend Ione had always said she’d not taken enough advantage of and she sang, and she had to look away from the men and down at her baby for fear of sobbing or running from the courtyard.

She swallowed heavily as Jols and Galahad called for Arthur just as she’d finished, and Bors came and kissed her and the baby. She watched as the knights went to Arthur one by one, Dagonet touching her arm as he passed her, and she jounced the baby and stood in the courtyard and continued to watch as things changed irrevocably, again.

*

_Hail, King Arthur!_

_Hail, Arthur!_

Vanora held baby Colin as she watched Arthur kiss the young Woad that had turned out to be the daughter of Arthur’s greatest enemy. She shook her head; the girl was beautiful and strong and obviously loved her home. That was important, probably the most important thing really, other than the loyalty she seemed to want to show Arthur.

But Vanora knew she’d been in Arthur’s bed within a few days of knowing the man, and she also knew she’d tried to bend Lancelot to her way as well. It didn’t really matter; Vanora would have done the same had that been what she’d wanted. She did feel a loss for Lancelot, though; the knight had known what he’d wanted, and he hadn’t gotten it because of Arthur’s unflappable ideals. And then she felt another huge loss for Dagonet, who had also died for Arthur’s unflappable ideals. She’d feel that loss for a long time. That was a bad thing that had happened, and while she understood in her way and knew the men would follow Arthur into Hell, she was angry at the new king because he knew that, and maybe while not meaning to, had taken advantage of it.

She shrugged, her back tight from standing at the coronation and wedding that had taken place that day as the men and women that had fought with the knights against the Saxons turned and fired arrows into the sea. Arthur made a gorgeous speech as he always did, raising his sword and grasped hands with the girl that was now his wife.

_Now I’ll really have to marry your mother._

_Who said I’d have ya?_

She snorted and frowned in mock exasperation at Bors and allowed the children – all eleven, her brood and her life – to wander away and begin the celebration with the other local children. It was windy and chilly and she sat away from the group, bouncing Colin and watching as the fires were lit, watching as Arthur drank with mostly strangers that he was now the ruler over, and watched as Bors approached her, mugs in hand.

Night was coming, she was exhausted, and she took the ale he offered gratefully, setting the baby down in the grass as he wobbled back and forth and cooed to himself. He’d be walking soon, and she was terrified and happy about that.

Bors nudged her as they sat together on an overturned dead tree. “Look at this,” he laughed, pointing at Arthur and then scrubbing a hand over his face, downing his ale in a huge gulp. His cap, one she’d made, covered his mostly bald pate and she shivered, leaning in to him as the wind tried to pick up her cloak and she drank as well, allowing his arm to fall about her shoulders.

“How is he?” she nodded toward Arthur. “Grieving,” Bors answered, and took his turn to shrug. “As am I.”

She jerked a bit at that. He was a man’s man on the surface. But she knew him, knew his heart, and she’d known he wouldn’t leave Arthur alone to deal with the Saxons the moment they’d seen them gather at the gates. Even with the pretense of them riding out that morning.

“I miss him too.”

Bors smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “He was the best of us,” he said quietly, and she twitched her mouth as she took his hand and wound it in hers. “Aye,” she answered. “But I think Lancelot would argue you that fact.”

Bors laughed, and this time she saw his eyes light like she was used to, and she was thankful he appreciated her attempt at levity. Gods, she’d miss Lancelot, and she ached at Dagonet’s absence like she never thought she would for any person. She’d miss them all. It was awful.

“Gods watch over that fancy bastard,” Bors agreed. “I don’t know how Arthur is going to survive,” he added, wrinkling his nose and shooting a big sigh out of his mouth. “He’s empty.”

Vanora watched Arthur drinking and talking and she took in the herky-jerky way he walked, the long cape and armor and silver circlet at his brow a costume. Granted, one he was good at wearing, but still. She leaned over and kissed Bors, and he touched her hair and looked down at her, a pained expression crossing quickly – he missed his friend, so much, she knew – and then he kissed her back, a strange soft kiss that made her knees slightly weak. Good thing she was sitting.

It was not like her to be soppy, but she realized as she watched her man and then turned and watched the knights that were left and the Briton people they’d adopted, she was in a place she’d needed to be since her parents died, and since she’d been alone in the world. Since she’d wanted nothing but to take money from and take advantage of the Romans that had stolen her home and had taken boys from their land and turned them into killers, letting them sacrifice themselves to a cause they had no care about.

She was that same girl still, but not. And she was fine with that. She had a family, and had a man she loved and respected, and whom more importantly loved and respected her and what she was and could do as a mother and partner and friend.

Things had changed irreversibly. Gods help them, and they’d do as much as they could to help themselves.

She reached out to her baby and picked him up, jouncing him up and down, and Bors took him out of her grasp and spoke to him in his mother tongue, words of power and love and she looked up at the sky, sparkling with stars as music swelled and the smell of food was everywhere and she could hear her other children running and being happy and she knew, she felt it, Dagonet would have given his blessing on what had happened, as broken hearted as it made her man, and thusly her. She laid her hand on Bors’ leg and watched her breath plume in the chilled night air, fiddles and a flute and a drum filling the land at the edge of the cliff where a people had been created with song and life.

Vanora, age twenty-eight, was always loud. She was boisterous, and brave and busy and funny. She was _that_ girl, the one that everyone didn’t want to be like, annoying, brash and showy. 

And she was loved, and loved back, and didn’t quite care what bothered other people.

~

**Author's Note:**

> So...I am so excited to have gotten my favorite fandom as an assignment, although the challenge was to write knights and characters I am not as attached to. I started this out thinking I'd be fine to get 1k words done, and it just blasted out of me. It doesn't sound like me to me, either, but I really enjoyed this. Thank you for the great prompts.
> 
> I am sorry to include Dag's death in this, but it fit for the lay out of the story. It hurts me to write it too. 
> 
> I'm also terrible at summaries. :D
> 
> I hope this flows okay and makes sense. I hope you have a great yuletide! Thank you to everyone for your read/comment/kudos and any time you spend on my writing. It is much appreciated.


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